


I Beg Your Pardon, Mister Churchill

by randomdreamer01



Series: The Germans Wore Grey, You Wore Blue [2]
Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016), Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - World War II, Drama, Espionage, F/M, One Shot, Please Forgive me, Romance, World War II, recruiting messed up Jyn, spy captain Cassian, there is a lot of flirting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-13
Updated: 2017-04-13
Packaged: 2018-10-18 09:47:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,481
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10614378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/randomdreamer01/pseuds/randomdreamer01
Summary: “I didn’t know, Captain, that finding me equates to troops landing on foreign soil.”“When your father is Galen Erso then, yes, it does.”...London, 1940.Captain Cassian Andor of the British Intelligence attempts to recruit Jyn Erso for the war effort.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first in a series of unconnected stories of Jyn and Cassian during WWII. (Please see the series' notes for more information.) I'm trying something new with this, guys, and I'm not at all sure where everything is headed or whether it will work out. HELP! 
> 
> Also, please note that although I am a lover of WWII history, I am not an expert. I would love to hear from you if you think I made any mistakes. Leave a (calm and rational) comment and I will get back to you. [You can also check out the series’ official playlist here. I'll be updating it as I go along.](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PL6q0-u-EGyHV_gc5rxOwwUA5NFzQKEHUQ)
> 
> Reviews are (almost) better than the red velvet cake I just hungrily consumed. So please leave one if you can!

_For the second time in our history, a British Prime Minister has returned from Germany bringing peace with honour._

_I believe it is peace for our time. We thank you from the bottom of our hearts. Go home and get a nice quiet sleep._

**Neville Chamberlain,** a year before Britain declared war against Germany 

 

* * *

 

**April 13, 1940**

**London, England**

 

Exactly two hundred and twenty three days after Britain went to war against Germany, Jyn Erso finds herself at the Ritz Hotel in London. At the bar, as one ought to be on a Saturday night. Drinking alone. Her eyes sweeping over the room like she has done this a thousand times before. 

She hasn’t. 

She is in a deep blue evening dress, the material flowing and comfortable. She had washed and scrubbed it clean herself; her chapped hands are proof. The dress has a daring slit that goes all the way up to the middle of her left thigh. Impractical, but necessary, especially for what she has in mind for tonight. It had taken her a great deal amount of effort and time to curl her hair, although no one would know just by looking at her. She looks like a proper high class lady, pristinely dressed for the evening by her maid. At first glance, no one would guess that, at the end of the night, she’ll be returning to an empty unfurnished flat where all the belongings she owns is kept in a single military-issued rucksack - one she has stolen from a young soldier three nights ago.

So much for turning over a new leaf. 

Jyn hates this. The Ritz. The glamour. The pretending. The sound of her heels clicking against the marble floor. She hates everything about it. 

But a girl has got to eat, hasn’t she?

There is a band on stage, crooning a soft song for the guests dining in the lavishly decorated room. A song from a long forgotten time in Jyn’s life. A sad one, perhaps. But not sad enough. 

_I never knew the charm of spring_

_I never met it face to face_

_I never knew my heart could sing_

_I never missed a warm embrace_

There is a man sitting across the bar from her, nursing a gin and tonic. He is a large man, moustached, balding, looks to be in his late fifties. Like most military men during this time of war, he is in his uniform. Obviously, he is an officer; hardly any low-ranking servicemen come to the Ritz. The man’s eyes dart around the room cautiously as he sips his drink. A handkerchief is clutched in his other hand and he keeps using it to wipe his brow. 

He is not ideal, Jyn thinks. But he’ll do. She’s dealt with worse. 

“Colonel Reginald Smyth,” says a voice, cutting into her quiet observation, and nearly making her jump out of her seat. She turns to her left and her eyes land on the speaker. A man about her age, standing close by, a drink in hand. His evening suit is a little too rumpled, his eyes a little too tired (she thinks she has never seen eyes that tired before), and when he inclines his head toward the older man she has been looking at, there is a ghost of a smile on his lips. 

“Colonel Reginald Smyth,” repeats the man. “Fought in the Great War and got a medal for it. Now, he fills out useless documents and hangs around the War Office because he is too old to be sent to the front.”

The man has an accent. A nice one, she thinks. Mexican, if she were to guess, and the tone of his voice is surprisingly warm, as though he is talking to a friend and not a stranger he has just met at a bar. 

Untrustworthy, she decides immediately. He has to be. 

“I beg your pardon?”

“The colonel,” replies the man, waving a careless hand. “Weren’t you wondering who he was? I’m guessing you have plans for the poor man.”

“Oh, do I? I don’t know what you’re talking about,” says Jyn. She makes a show of rolling her eyes before taking a sip of whiskey. “It is not very gentlemanly of you to pass judgement. I am a respectable woman.” 

“Of course you are.” 

“And if I had plans for the colonel, I certainly wouldn’t share them with you.”

“Of course you wouldn’t.” He nearly smiles again and then leans in closer to her, as though wanting to share a dangerous secret. “But if you _did_ have plans for him, I’m afraid those plans wouldn’t work. You see - our friend, the colonel…he is only up here for show. An hour from now, after everyone has gotten a bit tipsy, he will make his way down to the _Pink Sink_ like he does every time he comes to The Ritz _._ ” 

The _Pink Sink_ is the bar in the hotel’s basement. Jyn has never been there herself, but she has heard of it. The recognition must have shown on her face for the stranger smiles thinly. It is not a real smile. But a smile nonetheless. 

“So now you know, ma’am, that you’re probably not the colonel’s…type.” 

“I was merely being observant,” says Jyn in a clipped voice and takes another sip of her drink. 

“I thought I would save you some time and some trouble,” says the stranger. He is running his fingers around the rim of his glass. Delicate, nimble-looking fingers. “A girl like you…well, a girl like you don’t take defeats too well.” 

“You do not know me, sir.” 

A sense of dread washes over her. The man sees too much. Far too much. 

“Well,” he says, “that’s where you’re wrong.” 

“I don’t understand - ”

The man moves closer, his right hand outstretched toward her. “Captain Cassian Andor. British Intelligence.” 

Tortuously, frighteningly, the moment drags on. She stares at him - at his offered hand, at his blank expression, at the way he is comfortably occupying her space. 

Finally, Jyn stammers, “I do not see how this is - ”

“And you’re Jyn Erso.” 

She forces a shaky little laugh. “Sir, I’m afraid you’ve mistaken me for someone else.”

“You’re Jyn Erso,” he says again, his tone strangely casual. “Daughter of Galen and Lyra Erso. Born in London, but raised in France after the death of your mother.” 

“Sir, I - ”

“I’ve seen your records, Miss Erso. You’ve dabbled in arms dealing, art theft, identity theft and various other criminal activities. Minor ones, of course, but still criminal.”

“Are you here to arrest me, Mister Andor?” Because, by God, if he is, she is not going to go quietly. 

“On the contrary, Miss Erso,” he says in a strained voice, “I’m here about another matter entirely.” He glances down at his still outstretched hand. “I’d appreciate it if you’d give me a moment of your time.” 

She glares at him. The man must be insane. “I do not seem to have a choice in the matter.” 

“Oh, you absolutely do.”

“Do I?” She lifts one sceptical eyebrow. “Tell me, Mister Andor - what if I ran? Would you tackle me to the ground? Pin me down as if I were a common criminal?”

“I wouldn’t tackle you, no, but I do have my orders.” 

“A gentleman spy.” She sneers a little. “By God, you meet all sorts in this day and age.”

It is the first shot she has managed to land; there is a flash of anger in his dark eyes and he drops his hand. So maybe not a gentleman spy, then. A tortured spy, perhaps. Someone who follows orders, but struggles with doing so.

When Cassian speaks again, his voice turns incredibly rigid. 

“When was the last time you were in contact with your father?”

There is a long pause and the ground drops from beneath her feet. And somewhere, in the far distance, the song plays on. 

_Till April in Paris, chestnuts in blossom_

_Holiday tables under the trees_

_April in Paris, this is a feeling_

_That no one can ever reprise_

“I like to think my father’s dead,” Jyn says eventually. “It makes things easier.”

“Easier than what?”

She shrugs, because she doesn’t know. Doesn’t care. Doesn’t ever want to. Never again. She brings her glass up to her lips and realises that it is now empty. _Blast it._

“We have it on good information that your father has resurfaced,” says Cassian in a low voice. He is standing exceptionally close to her now ( _when has this happened?_ ), their knees almost touching. “Our last source places him in Berlin. If he is not in Berlin, then he is still somewhere in Germany. It is possible that he has been at Hitler’s side since ’26, ever since Hitler became Führer.”

“Twenty-six. That’s when - ”

“Your mother was killed, yes.”

Jyn's hand immediately flies to the crystal around her neck. Its sharpness digs into the palm of her hand - a token from a woman whose face she no longer remembers. She still dreams of the gun shot. Of the sound of a body hitting the ground. Of smoke. Of a man in a Sturmabteilung uniform, striding across the field with his pistol raised… 

She looks hastily away from Cassian, hating the knowing look she sees there in his eyes.

“We have information,” Cassian continues calmly as though he hasn't noticed her reaction, “that your father might be developing a powerful weapon for the Nazis. Something that could help them win the war.” 

“That’s a lie!” 

He does not even wince at her anger. “Miss Erso, for what it’s worth, we think that he is being forced to cooperate against his will. That he is a hostage rather than a true believer.” 

“Why are you telling me this?”

“Because, believe it or not, you can help us find him.” 

Find her father? Is this man mad? Jyn has not seen her father since she was eight years old. Galen Erso exists only in her memory as a shadow, as a pair of arms that had held her and let her go. A relic of her past and nothing more. She is an orphan now, she tells herself. She has been an orphan ever since all the people she loved had left her behind. 

Breathe. She needs to breathe. 

“Miss Erso?” 

Cassian is peering over at her, his brows knitted together in concern. She notices how his hand is twitching, as though he is about to reach for her but can’t. 

“I do not see how I could be of use,” she says finally, her voice hoarse. 

“We’re British Intelligence. We have our methods. But we need your connections to help us along the way. Especially your connections in France.”

“You said ‘we’, Mister Andor. But are you even British?” she asks instead, trying to buy herself more time. Because one more question about him means one less question about her. And that is all she’s had from this man - questions. 

“My mother was English,” replies Cassian, shrugging, and the past tense tells her that they at least have one thing in common. “But it doesn’t really matter what I am, does it? This war…well, it’s coming for all of us.” 

“What war, Mister Andor? I do not see a war. The British Expeditionary Force have been in France since September and there has been no fighting. Some people are even calling this war a phoney one, you know. Say it’s going to be over by Christmas.” She scoffs and taps a finger against her empty glass. “And all you lot have been doing is handing out gas masks and ration coupons.”

“ _My_ lot?”

“The government.”

His lips curl into something close to disdain. So definitely _not_ a gentleman spy. 

“Just because the public doesn’t know about it, it doesn’t mean nothing is happening,” says Cassian quietly and cuttingly. “British troops are landing in Norway as we speak, operations are in place all over the continent, and I’m here with you, aren’t I?”

“I didn’t know finding me equates to troops landing on foreign soil.” 

“When your father is Galen Erso then, yes, it does.” 

“I’m sorry. But I cannot help you.”

“If you help us, your records will be wiped clean.” 

“And this promise is coming from…?”

“Winston Churchill.” 

She frowns, momentarily distracted. “Churchill? First Lord of the Admiralty? Last time I checked, Chamberlain is still Prime Minister.”

“Open your eyes, Miss Erso. Chamberlain will not be in power for long. Both parties will not support him, especially if we can’t withstand the Germans in Norway. Which…” - he cocks his head to the side, an ironic smile tugging at his lips - “…there is a possibility we might not. And who do you think the country will turn to then?”

Jyn inhales deeply, trying to calm her own rapid breathing. So a chance to see her father again and a pardon from the man who might be Prime Minister of England. She picks up her glass, stares into its empty depths. 

The decision should be simple. Clean. Easy. But, like always, her life never is. 

_Till April in Paris_

_Whom can I run to_

_What have you done to my heart_

“I haven’t seen my father in thirteen years,” she finds herself saying out loud. “I can’t even remember his face.” 

“We have pictures.” 

She lapses into silence again. The band has started playing a different song, but for the life of her, she can’t make out the words. 

“Jyn,” says Cassian, and it is the first time he says her name. He says it familiarly, softly, as though he has been saying it for years. “Can you bear to see Nazi flags reign across Europe? Across the world?” 

“It is not a problem if you don’t look up.”

Cassian laughs dryly, his fingers returning to the rim of his glass again. He shakes his head wearily. 

“And you think that if you say it enough, you might even manage to convince yourself.”

He swears under his breath in Spanish before turning to look at her, and she nearly recoils from the intimacy reflecting in his dark eyes. He looks at her like he doesn’t trust her (perhaps he never will), but he also looks at her like he _knows_ her.

“Is this what you’d rather do instead, Jyn? Run?” He waves a hand at their surroundings, the gesture laced with frustration. “Spend your time at posh bars and hotels, looking to swindle the next fool who comes into your orbit? Trying to get rich old men like Colonel Smyth into your bed?”

“Is that what _you_ think I’ve been doing? Getting rich men into my bed?” 

God, she should be angry with him. She should be furious. But for some inexplicable reason, she is not. She finds herself smiling instead, and the smile is sneering and teasing and spiteful. 

“I do wonder - is this what you’ve been thinking about? The men I bring to my bed and what I do with them?”

“I didn’t - ”

“Because if you’ve been wondering, we can go upstairs right now. We can get a room and I can show you what I do with these men.” 

His jaw tightens. He doesn’t look angry, she realises, despite the colour that is rising in his cheeks. He doesn’t even look uncomfortable. He _does_ want her; she knows this much just by looking into his eyes. But he sees right through her too, and somehow, he knows precisely what she is trying to do. 

He drains his glass in one quick swig and that neutral expression returns. But she catches a hint of amusement in his tone when he simply states, “You’re being evasive.”

“So you do _not_ want to know what I’m like in bed?” 

“Oh, I didn’t say _that,_ ” he replies casually. “But remember - I have seen your records, Jyn Erso. I know your personality. I know your behavioural pattern. I think I could hazard a guess. You, however, have no idea what _I’m_ like.”

“Oh, I don’t?”

“Not a clue. And if we were to get a room upstairs, here’s what I’d do.” 

They are already close - her seated on the stool and him standing by her elbow - but he moves closer still and bends down until his mouth is at her ear. She can feel his hot breath against her cheek. And all she can do while he whispers those sweet and dirty things in her ear is to bite down on her bottom lip, hoping to God he doesn’t hear how fast her heart is beating. 

She nearly lets herself shut her eyes and revel in the fantasy for a moment. Just for a moment. But this is only a game. A silly, childish game. And when he pulls away with a smile - a genuine one that lights up his entire face - she thinks that this might be a game she is about to lose. 

She can’t read him at all, despite his (rather nice) smile. She wonders what he is thinking about. Whether his heart is fluttering as much hers is, or whether there’s a similar chill rushing through his entire body like the one that’s rushing through hers.

Oh, the man is good. The man is _too_ good. 

“I am a lady,” she manages to whisper even though his words have rattled her. Even though it feels like they have taken permanent residence under her skin. “We do not speak of such things.”

“You are no lady,” he says, smirking a little. “There is a tear in your left stocking ever since you arrived here. A lady would notice such things.” 

_Damn it all._

She glances down, and there - sure enough - is a thin line in her stocking, running all the way up from just above her ankle to the middle of her thigh. The placement of the tear is unfortunate, to say the least. But Cassian is right. She should have noticed. 

“Well, would you look at that?” Jyn muses. “It seems I’m not very proper after all.” 

She lifts the hem of her dress and pulls the fabric to the side a little, boldly exposing her leg to him. Spitefully, she thinks that if he wants to look, then let him look. Let him look until the sight of her haunts him until he can’t sleep at night. 

And, yes. There it is. His eyes lingering a few seconds longer than it is deemed appropriate.

A thrill of pleasure rushes through her. Victory, however small, is always sweet. 

_I'm so afraid to close my eyes_

_Afraid that I'll find_

_That this lovely thrill_

_Is just a silly illusion_

“It was nice meeting you, Mister Andor,” she says, smiling coyly up at him. “It has been…interesting.”

“A master of diversions, aren’t you?”

“I’ve had many opportunities to practice, as you well know.”

“Well, I didn’t expect you to be dull and you’re not.” He reaches into the pocket of his dinner jacket, draws out a name card and puts it down just by her empty glass. “Give me a call someday.” 

“When I’m feeling bored?”

“No. When you’re finally ready to help us find your father. When you’re ready to help us win this war.”

She feels her heart swelling at his words. God, she doesn’t want it to, but it does. 

“Do you really think we can win?”

“We have no choice _but_ to win.”

A small, broken laugh escapes from her. “Sounds like a fool’s hope.”

“Well, we have to start somewhere. And if a fool’s hope is all we have, then that’s already something.”

“Why, I believe you are quite a sentimentalist at heart, Mister Andor.” 

“Cassian,” he says. “Call me Cassian.” 

He reaches into his pocket once more, but this time, he takes out a couple of coins. He puts them down one by one on the counter, right by his name card. 

“This is for your next drink,” he says. “Whiskey, isn’t it? It’s on me.”

“How kind of you. But what if I don’t call?”

Again, he smiles at her, rare and warm and a little too knowing. “Oh, you will. You will. I’m counting on it.”

He leaves her staring after him as he walks away, and she thinks she can almost recall the sound of her father’s voice for the first time in years. It echoes around in her brain as loudly as the music playing from the stage. As loudly as Cassian's footsteps as they retreat further and further away. 

_Jyn, whatever I do, I do it to protect you._

The past and the present finally merge into one, and she sees it all so very clearly, both the road behind and the road ahead. 

For her, the world is no longer an empty place. It is simply too full of surprises for that.

.

.

.

**Author's Note:**

> If you expected Churchill to appear in this story, I can only apologise. I suck at coming up with titles and it seems like I might have come up with a very misleading one. The lyrics used are from "April in Paris" and Al Bowlly's "Dreaming". [You can also check out the series’ official playlist here. I'll be updating it as I go along.](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PL6q0-u-EGyHV_gc5rxOwwUA5NFzQKEHUQ)
> 
> Now on to the history:
> 
> \- The Ritz was a hub of activity during the war, especially for high-ranking government officials, officers and socialites. At one point, the hotel even hosted the Albanian royal family, who took up an entire floor. Along with the likes of the Savoy and the Waldorf, the Ritz also remained prominent during the Blitz. 
> 
> \- "The Pink Sink" was a bar beneath the Ritz. It is described as "the best gay pick-up joint in town", always noisy and full of officers in uniform. 
> 
> \- This story is set during the period of "The Phoney War", which lasted from when Britain declared war against Germany (September 3, 1939) until May 10, 1940, when the Germans invaded France and the low countries. The period was termed so because of the lack of fighting in France where the BEF (The British Expeditionary Force) were stationed. Despite government-issued gas masks and ration coupons, life on the home front seemed unaffected by the conflict. Churchill was one of the politicians who spoke out against this notion of the war being a "phoney" one. 
> 
> \- Cassian's mention of British troops landing on Norway "as we speak" refers to the events of the following day (April 14) when British marines would be landing on Namsos to help the Norwegians repel German forces.
> 
> \- Neville Chamberlain resigned as Prime Minister on May 10, 1940, after the allies were forced to retreat from Norway. Both parties - Labour and Liberal - did not continue endorsing him. Winston Churchill was asked by the King to form a government and Churchill, of course, accepted. 
> 
> \- The Sturmabteilung or "the Brownshirts" were 'thugs' and 'stormtroopers' who played an important role in the rise of the Nazi Party. They were later superseded by the SS. 
> 
> \- Cassian is simply "British Intelligence" in this story because The Special Operations Executive (SOE) was not 'officially' formed until June 1940, despite the many minor sections that were already in existence before the outbreak of the war. 
> 
> ...
> 
> I am very nervous about this new series so PLEASE hit me with your thoughts or with any questions you might have. I would LOVE to hear from you.


End file.
